


the one with the splinter.

by orphan_account



Category: Andrew Hozier-Byrne (Musician)
Genre: Fluff, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21711595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Andrew gets a splinter.(gender unspecified OC.)
Relationships: Andrew Hozier-Byrne/Original Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 50





	the one with the splinter.

**Author's Note:**

> I keep coming up with these things, and I have nowhere to put them. So I'm putting them here.
> 
> (also, only haphazardly proof-read, so, apologies for any mistakes.)
> 
> (also, also -- suggestions welcome. leave 'em in the comments.)

\\\

“Stay — hey! Just, can you — god, just hold still for a second…”

“It stings…”

You were stood between the sprawl of his legs, tweezers in hand, and with what you hoped was a serious, studious look cast across your face. “Baby, I know. But I can’t get it if you keep squirming like that.”

He just sighed and slipped his glasses from his face with his free hand. “Sorry.”

“Does it hurt? Did I hurt you, I mean?”

“No.” He shook his head quickly and managed a sweet grin before dropping a quick kiss to your arm that was holding his wrist steady. “No. You’re fine.”

How you’d ended up here — wrapped up in his long limbs with an ad-hock first-aid kit laid out across the dining table (whiskey (for sterilisation and for drinking), a small mound of paper towels, three sets of tweezers of varying sizes, and a bowl of warm water) — you weren’t quite sure.

You’d been curled up being blissfully bathed in the sounds of his sappy Christmas playlist with your head buried in a book when you'd heard a litany of colourful expletives floating on the air from this room to the sitting room. You’d staggered somewhat ungracefully from there to here, to him, on your prickly legs and with your book still dangling from your hand, only to be faced with the sight of him looking at a small pile of firewood with what could only be described as pure contempt, and with his finger shoved in his mouth.

“What happened? You all right?” You’d abandoned the book on the bench and made your way over to him, taking his hand when he offered it and looking for any obvious signs of damage.

“Splinter.” He waggled the offending digit in your direction. “Under the nail.”

You had tried your hardest not to laugh — both at the mildness of his injury, considering the volume of his shouts, and at the miserable look that had been plastered across his face. “This one?” You’d pointed to the shard of a log that had been and still was lying apart from the rest, to try to distract yourself.

“Yes…” He waned, dropping forlornly into a nearby chair. “I dropped it on my foot. After.”

All you could do was smile sadly at him, smoothing a hand over his mess of curls. “Aw, honey. Let me see.”

The whiskey had been on the table when you got back from your hunt for tweezers. Nothing else, though. Nothing useful — just the whiskey. After you’d gathered the rest, he’d tugged you to stand between his legs, which is where you’d stayed, and still were, while you tried to drag the offending little splinter out from under his nail.

At some point, he’d sagged against you, his head all but tucked under your arm so he didn’t have to look at his pink and prodded finger while you worked on it. He had his free hand curled around your thigh, squeezing every so often not as a warning so much as to soothe himself.

“Got it!” You dropped the tweezers onto the pile of paper pressed a quick kiss to his hair, giggling softly as his arms curled tighter around you — both of them, now — and his face burrowed sadly into the fluff of your jumper.

“Thank you.” He mumbled against your chest, his own lips laying a smooch somewhere near where your heart beat just beyond.

“You’re welcome.” You raked a hand through his curly mop, scratching gently over his neck and down his back, revelling quietly in the little goosebumps you could see rising over the peeks of his exposed skin. “Doin’ okay?”

“Yeah,” he sighed, still not moving or loosening his grip on you.

“Want me to finish up the firewood?”

“No,” he mumbled again, dragging you impossibly nearer, still.

“… want to go back to bed and try today over again, in a little while?”

//


End file.
